


By the Sea

by Syksy



Category: Earthsea - Ursula K. Le Guin
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syksy/pseuds/Syksy
Summary: Penthe saw her chance to run away, when the ground shook and all manner of things collapsed. Now she leads a very different life.





	By the Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hikario](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikario/gifts).



> Thank you to Winterhill for the beta!

The children of this small island tell stories of grandmother Penthe. How she once was a priestess in faraway lands. Not that they know what a priestess is, but it must be something like a witch, must it not? Only grander, somehow. And more frightful, as well.

How her skin is still so pale because she grew up under the earth like the white roots of some plants and never saw sunlight before she left her home. Where that home was, they've never been told, but that does not matter. All directions are equally mysterious to them, except maybe west. The nearest other island is that way, and they know that some people have gone there, at least once, long ago.

How there was a temple where she used to live, or several perhaps. And they, or it, came down like a hut might come in a winter storm. They do not know what a temple is, but it must be a building of some sort, and they don't know many buildings. The big house, the stone house, could never come down. So a temple must not be like that.

They ask her to tell them about that place, but she always declines. Instead she tells them about escaping through the great desert, all alone and frightened. She tells them about the wide sea that she crossed, and how she ended up on their island, of all the islands in Earthsea. ”Because I was meant to,” she says and smiles at grandmother Berry.

Grandmother Penthe and grandmother Berry live together on a rocky promontory in the far end of the narrow island. The children know that Penthe used to miss the sea in that unimaginable dry place, so she doesn't mind the harsh autumn wind tearing at their cottage, bringing the waves almost to their doorstep. And Berry is a witch, so she likes living a little apart from anyone. Not that there are that many people in their village anyway. Or on the whole island.

Even though she never tells those stories, sometimes as she sits down in the evening, Penthe can't help remembering. When the wind howls just so, like it did around the temple walls. When there is a scent in the air, not quite of death but something akin to it. When she finds herself, all unawares, humming a piece of song long willed to be forgotten.

She had wanted to be a dancing-girl, once. That, she never managed to do. But she did know men, before she came here. There was a nice one she met on her first night in a real town. He was handsome, and kind, and really cared for her. But after the first thrill of the forbidden passed, she felt hollow. He was strange to her, in his manner and in his speech. And there really was nothing shared between them, except the primal joy of young bodies coming together.

So she traveled on, not willing to face the sadness in his eyes. She tried to fit in, tried to find a man she liked, a life that she imagined other women had. It did not work. Men did not frighten her, they were not incomprehensible or difficult to please. But it was always there. A wall, between them and her. Or maybe something missing, that should have been in her, in them. Perhaps if she had grown up among men, known them in spirit before knowing them in flesh, it might have been different. She doesn't know. And it matters little now, in any case. She is more comfortable among women, and no one here minds that. Least of all her Berry-bright.

Penthe met Berry on her first day on the island. She landed her boat near some fisherfolk hard at work at mending their nets. They took one look at her and told her to go to the witch. She knew enough about the people of the Inner Lands then, to have an idea what one was like. So Berry was able to surprise her. That first time, and many times after.

Berry was sullen, even defiant. But not unkempt, or malformed in any way. She was a wisp of of a girl, newly on her own. Both desperate to prove herself to the villagers and fiercely proud of not needing anything from anyone. She reminded Penthe of Arha in that way, though of course they looked nothing alike. And Berry did not have Arha's cruelty. She would just stalk away when angry or frightened, and pretend that nothing was amiss the next time their paths crossed.

The cottage did not really have room for a guest, but they made do. Penthe was not eager to try and beg some other villager to take her in, and even though it was hard to tell at first, Berry actually wanted company. So Penthe slept by the hearth and gathered her bedding up every morning, before her host even woke up. Some habits were hard to break, and the priestesses of the Godking's temple always woke with the sun. Witches, on the other hand, were wont to stay up half the night. Thus they were both afforded some solitary hours, which went a long way to keep peace under their roof for the first few months.

Penthe was cautiously curious about her host's profession. It seemed to her to be mostly about herbs and appearing mysterious, both things at least passingly familiar to her from her past. But every once in a while, something would happen that she could not explain away as trickery or sleight of hand. Those sent shivers down her back and an echo of Kossil's voice, speaking of sorcerers who are never reborn, whispered in her mind. But was it fear or fascination she felt, she did not really know. And in any case, it was easy to forget those moments, in the day to day rhythm of their mostly ordinary lives.

One evening, maybe two months after her arrival on the island, Penthe broke a favorite jug of Berry's. It was one of those silly accidents; she tripped and fell and felt extraordinarily foolish sitting there in a puddle on the floor, surrounded by pieces of broken crockery. At least until Berry cried out in anger and something like pain. "My mother's jug! How could you?" she demanded, with more feeling than Penthe thought such an ordinary looking thing could possibly deserve. But she did not wish to see anyone hurting, so she tried to soothe Berry. "Can you not fix it? Surely it can't be too hard to do? I've seen you mend broken bones, this can't be nothing to such a thing?"

But Berry only hung her head and muttered something about not knowing the words for clay. "The words?" Penthe asked, forgetting both her manners and the other woman's distress, in a bout of curiosity. "What do words have to do with it?"

"Everything!", Berry cried, obviously frustrated with her lack of understanding. "That is what all true magic is, knowing the words. I have a spell for setting bones, and for finding fish and for one other thing I will not speak of, but that's all. I'm no mage, you know!" And she rushed out, leaving Penthe feeling bewildered and guilty in equal measures.

Much later, when their friendship deepened, Penthe grew to understand how much this lack of knowledge bothered Berry sometimes. Mostly she was content, if not happy, in her profession, able to earn her living and to help those who needed it. But every now and then, when she had to watch a kid die, or tell a young girl that she could not bring her sweetheart back from the sea, Penthe could see that anger in her eyes.

That shared resentment was what bound them, in the end, with bonds deeper than either of them had felt before. Penthe had lost most of hers when she had left the Kargad lands and found that a woman could be many things in this world. Not all of it, though. There were still things she found bitter to swallow, even if she smiled while doing so. Berry rarely smiled, those first few years, but Penthe wore her down in the end. "No use sulking, my Berry-bright," she'd say, and more and more often get a small, swift smile in return.

So they grew together, and out of that fierceness of feeling something less violent emerged. Or perhaps it forged their spirits, painfully but cleanly, into a fine point. A blade to cut through the numbing sameness of everyday, so that they might appreciate more the things they did have, while never giving up on a silent hope that there might be more. If they had been left apart, that  feeling might have festered, like a wound not lanced, and poisoned both of them in the end.

Now they have time for the children. To teach them little tricks, to tell them small stories. They have smiles for them and for each other. And at night, when Berry finally climbs into their shared bed, for age has only made her into more of a night bird, they can dream together without rancor or pain. And dream they do, after the sea gently sings them to sleep.


End file.
